Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (11 page)

“This is all very interesting,” I said, “but how does it concern Slade?”

“Slade's purpose in Russia was twofold,” Lord Eastbourne said. “He went there to establish contact with Russian revolutionaries, supply them with money, and do whatever he could to further their cause and weaken the Tsar's regime. That he did, while posing as a Russian scholar and journalist. Second, he was supposed to put himself in a position to learn what the Tsar's plans are regarding action against Britain. He achieved both purposes, although the details as to how are unclear.”

For three years I'd wondered what Slade was doing in Russia; now I knew, but I had yet to learn anything that pertained to the present.

“Slade managed to infiltrate the Kremlin—the Tsar's palace,” Lord Eastbourne said. “He was our best agent in Moscow. He smuggled messages to us, reporting secrets from the highest echelon of the Russian government. But in January of this year, his messages stopped. So did the flow of all other intelligence from Moscow. We heard nothing until February, when one of our Russian informants showed up in London. He told us that Slade had turned traitor.”

My mouth dropped. Shock delivered after too many previous shocks rendered me speechless.

“Apparently, Slade had given the Third Section the names of his three fellow British agents,” Lord Eastbourne said. “The Third Section arrested and murdered all of them. Our informant said that Slade had begun working for the Tsar, as an expert on British espionage, foreign policy, and military strategy.”

I found my voice. “That can't be! Slade would never betray his country or his comrades!”

“Our source is reliable,” Lord Eastbourne countered, “and his statement was corroborated by the team of agents we sent to investigate.”

“I refuse to believe it!” My whole body was shaking, so agitated was I. “Where is Slade? I must hear his side of the story!”

Lord Eastbourne regarded me with a sympathy that I found more ominous than reassuring. He took my hand and held it between his own, which were warm, dry, and strong. The intimate gesture filled me with dread, for I had often seen clergymen extend it to the newly bereaved. “Miss Brontë, I know you think highly of John Slade. I regret to inform you that Slade was executed for treason. Our team of agents ambushed him in Moscow and shot him.”

Even as I went faint with horror, disbelief and anger flooded me. I wrenched my hand out of Lord Eastbourne's. “Slade is alive! I saw him last night! I just told you so!”

The sympathy in Lord Eastbourne's eyes turned to pity. “Whoever you saw, it couldn't have been him. Whether or not you believe he was a traitor, you must face this fact: John Slade has been dead for four months now.”

W
HEN I RETURNED TO GLOUCESTER TERRACE, ALL I WANTED to do was avoid everyone, shut myself in my room, think on what I'd learned at the Foreign Office, and try to recover from my shock. But George Smith met me at the foot of the stairs. “Where have you been?” He was clearly relieved to see me, but vexed by my absence.

“I had business to attend to.” I couldn't tell him what business.

Mrs. Smith joined us, happy that I'd displeased George. “Miss Brontë might have told us she was going out. But she is a secretive, stealthy sort of houseguest.”

“Our appointment with Dr. Browne, the phrenologist, is at nine o'clock,” George said. “I was worried that you wouldn't come back in time. Had you forgotten?”

“Oh, dear. I am sorry.” I had indeed forgotten that we'd arranged to meet with Dr. Browne, who examined the skulls of his clients in order to assess their characters. Phrenology was all the rage, and Dr. Browne so popular that this Sunday morning was the only time during my stay in London that he could see us.

“You evidently don't appreciate the trouble my son takes to entertain you.” Mrs. Smith addressed me but caught George's eye.

“Well, no matter, Charlotte,” he said, looking uncomfortable. I could see he'd begun to sense that his mother didn't care for me. “You're here now. Shall we be on our way? I thought we could visit the zoo afterward.”

“Yes, but first I must go up to my room.” I desperately needed some time alone before facing the rest of the day.

As I ran up the stairs, I heard Mrs. Smith say, “Miss Brontë looks ill. Her constitution is delicate.”
Too delicate for her to make you a good wife
, her tone implied. “Perhaps she should go home.”

I wouldn't give Mrs. Smith the satisfaction; and I couldn't leave London now, when momentous events were happening one after another with no resolution in sight. In my room I drew deep breaths to calm myself, then splashed cold water on my face. Soon I was in a carriage with George, riding along Bayswater Road.

“How was the play last night?” he asked.

“Good enough,” I said in a tone meant to discourage further questions.

“Oh.” He felt snubbed, I could tell. But George is so good-natured that he seldom takes offense for long. He began to point out interesting sights and talk about them, although I barely listened. My mind dwelled on my conversation with Lord Eastbourne. He had kindly but firmly insisted that I must accept the truth and forget John Slade, for my own good. I'd left the Foreign Office upset because the authorities would not help me find Slade. They believed he was dead. They would not change their minds on the word of a hysterical woman. Perhaps that was for the best, since they were no longer his friends. But now I began to question my own credibility. Maybe the man I'd seen really wasn't Slade. Maybe my nearsightedness was getting worse.

Dr. Browne had his consultancy in a row of townhouses near the Strand, that great thoroughfare that skirts the bank of the Thames from the West End to the city proper. When George rang the bell, a butler answered and said, “Mr. and Miss Fraser, I presume?”

Those were the names under which George had booked our appointment. We'd decided to pose as brother and sister and not reveal our true names, in case Dr. Browne had heard of us—foreknowledge might compromise his analysis. The butler sat George in the waiting room and ushered me to Dr. Browne's office.

A slender man of perhaps fifty years, Dr. Browne had a long face with drooping jowls and pink cheeks. He was so clean that he smelled of soap and everything about him shone—his rimless spectacles, his long white coat, the gray hair combed over his bald pate, and his toothy, ingratiating smile. On the wall hung a phrenology chart—drawings of a head in front, back, top, and side views, with areas divided by dotted lines and labeled. He seated me by the window, in a chair with a cushioned seat and low back. I noticed a display of framed portraits of well-known people.

“Those are clients,” Dr. Browne said proudly.

I thought it a good thing that I'd used an alias. I wouldn't care to have my portrait hung in his office and the results of his examination of Currer Bell publicized.

“Please allow me to explain the theory of phrenology,” Dr. Browne said. “The mind has different mental faculties, which reside in different organs within the brain. Bumps on the skull reflect the size of the underlying organs. I can therefore measure a person's capacity for a particular mental faculty by measuring that bump.”

He took up a set of calipers. “First, I shall take some overall measurements of your skull. Hold still, please.” I obeyed while he fitted the calipers to my head, front to back, then sideways, and read off the numbers. “Ah! Your head is quite large.”

I wondered if the numerous folks who thought phrenology was quackery were right. I hardly needed Dr. Browne to tell me what anyone could see—that my head was too big for my body. “Is it?” I said, ever self-conscious about my awkward proportions.

“Indeed. It's remarkable for its intellectual development. You have a large forehead, which signifies deep thoughtfulness and comprehensive understanding.”

That consoled me somewhat. Dr. Browne set aside his calipers, worked his fingertips gently but firmly over my scalp, and felt the bumps and indentations. “You have a fine organ of language. I deduce that you can express your sentiments with clearness, precision, and force.”

Perhaps there was merit to phrenology.

“You are very sensitive, with a nervous temperament, an exalted sense of the beautiful and ideal, and a gloomy view of the world. Although you are anxious to succeed in your undertakings, you are not so sanguine as to the probability of success.”

I winced, for he'd hit the target smack in the bull's-eye.

His fingers expertly probed my skull. “You form strong, enduring attachments.”

I thought of Monsieur Constantin Heger, the Belgian professor I'd loved unrequitedly for three years. I realized that I had loved Slade for the same length of time. I blinked away tears.

“You also have a very strong sense of justice,” Dr. Browne said.

Even though Slade had repudiated me, I didn't want him labeled a murder and traitor if he was not.

“I also detect a dedication to the truth,” Dr. Browne said.

And I still wanted to know whether Slade was guilty as charged.

“That concludes my examination.” Dr. Browne stepped back, clasped his hands, and smiled. “Have you any questions?”

“Yes,” I said. “Is it possible for the organs in a man's brain to change? Can that turn him into someone else, even a criminal?”

“It's entirely possible, and not uncommon. I've examined convicted murderers, and quite a few of them had suffered injuries to their heads. I remember one case—a boxer. He'd been knocked out many times, and he'd changed from a nice chap to a violent brute.”

I wondered if something similar had befallen Slade in Russia. Maybe his organ of memory had been so damaged that he'd forgotten me. But there occurred to me another, even more disturbing idea. Maybe Slade wasn't the person whose mental faculties were impaired.

“Doctor, may I ask—” I had to swallow fear before I could continue. “Did you detect any damage to the organs in my brain?”

My brother Branwell had been a lunatic. Seeing things that did-n't exist was a symptom of his madness, and perhaps madness ran in our family.

“None at all,” Dr. Browne said reassuringly. “In my opinion, you're completely sane.”

I thanked Dr. Browne and sat in the waiting room while George Smith had his consultation. I occupied myself with wondering about Slade.

George returned, unusually pensive. As we rode away in our carriage, I asked, “What's wrong?”

“Dr. Browne said I have an affectionate, friendly disposition. I am strongly attached to my home and family, and I am an admirer of the fair sex. I am active and practical, but not hustling or contentious.”

I laughed despite my worried mood. “But that's not unflattering. And it's you exactly! Why don't you like it?”

He looked annoyed by my mirth and stung because I agreed with Dr. Browne. “It makes me sound so shallow. What did he say about you?”

When I told him, it was his turn to laugh at the justice of Dr. Browne's observations. Cross with each other, we traveled in silence to the London Zoo.

The zoo occupied a spacious green park on the north side of Regent's Park. The animals were housed in fanciful Gothic palaces. The many visitors included a preponderance of children. The sun had come out, brightening the colorful scene. Roars from the lions and screeches from monkeys and exotic birds made the zoo seem a tropical outpost of the British Empire. George and I marched along without speaking. He was still out of sorts. He darted glances at me, and I feared he would ask questions that I would rather not answer. When we reached the pond in which ducks, geese, egrets, and flamingos were gathered, I said, “I would like to walk by myself awhile. Shall we meet here in an hour?”

“Very well,” George said, although he didn't look pleased.

I ambled through the zoo, hardly cognizant of where I went. My mind was so tired of wondering about Slade that I decided to give it a rest. I watched giraffes, camels, and zebras, whose comical faces made me smile. The barnyard smells reminded me of Haworth; they soothed rather than offended me. I viewed the hippopotamus, submerged in his tub, only his eyes above the water; he resembled a fat black hog in a farm wallow. The herd of elephants included a baby—a darling creature. I went into the house where lions and tigers prowled in cages. I listened to them roar and the children shriek in fright. By the time I entered the aviary, I was more at peace than I'd been since my visit to Bedlam, even though I knew not what my next course of action should be.

Brightly colored birds flitted between the palm trees under the glass roof. As I listened to parrots squawk and watched plumed cranes strut, I felt a sudden prickling sensation. I knew that sensation from my years as a schoolteacher. I'd felt it whenever I'd turned my back to my pupils. It was the feeling of unfriendly eyes on me. I turned and saw a man holding his little boy up to feed a macaw perched on a branch. A group of people admired a peacock spreading his brilliant tail feathers. Two women laughed as they wiped bird dung off the head of a bald man. No one appeared to be watching me, but my pulse quickened. I knew the scent of danger. I smelled it now.